I look at my watch. "10:50," I say.
"Fantastic. That is the time I have, too, give or take a minute or two. Listen to these instructions very carefully, Jeffrey, because it could be the difference between life and death, for you or somebody else. I give you until 12:00 today to tell that lovely DCI Reeves what you failed to tell DCI Baldwin in that interview room all those years ago. That little something that was really rather important when you think about it-"
"Or else...?"
"Tick-tock, Jeffrey. Tick-tock..."
And then the phone goes dead.
********
Pacing the car park, the soles of my feet burn against the hard, hot concrete. I check my watch. 10:55. The minutes are passing, and I'm doing nothing.
Tick-tock.
I have to make a decision. Now. I can't tell Reeves. I just can't. But he said it was life or death. It was worth dying for. I am prepared to give up my life. That is my choice.
I sink my face into my hands. My eyes close and my mind opens. I know it is not as simple as that. He knows I'd make that choice. He is not talking about my life. He is not talking about my death. He mentioned others. Who is he talking about?
I pull the other phone from my pocket. The blue one. I stab at the buttons with the tips of my fingers.
"Hello?"
"Dad."
"Hello, son. It is wonderful to hear from you. I have been thinking-"
"Dad," I interrupt, trying to keep my voice calm; failing to keep my voice calm. "Please, please, stay indoors until I say everything is safe. Lock yourself in. Don't let anybody in your house. Get a weapon. Be alert..."
"What is the matter?"
"Dad. Please. Just trust me."
"Okay, son."
I hang up the phone. Every second counts. I check my watch. 10:57. I can't stop the passing seconds. I phone my wife - my ex-wife - and then I phone my girlfriend. I give them the same hurried, frantic message: stay indoors, keep safe. They ask questions, of course they do, but then they assure me they will do what I tell them. They know. I check my phone. 11:01.
I think about my dad. I think about Emma. I imagine them dead. I imagine my own daughter dead. Killed.
I phone Reeves. I've made my decision. The phone rings. And the phone keeps ringing. I look at my watch. 11:03.
I wipe my forehead with my sleeve. And then I make my next decision.
If Reeves is not answering his phone, then I am going to have to go to Reeves.
*******
It is about a mile to the tube station.
The road is full of cars, buses and scooters. The pavement is full of pedestrians with bags and buggies, dawdling and taking up too much space. They're suddenly intent on taking in the beauty of the world. I stretch out my legs. I run fast, ignoring the sharp, stabbing pain in my chest. I dodge in and out of the people in my way, pushing anybody else to the side. I can barely speak to utter an apology. The red circle of the train station is like the bright beam emitting from a lighthouse. It is tiny, so far away. My eyes don't move away from it for a single second. The circle grows bigger, the colour becomes more vivid.
Glancing at the ticket office, at the ticket machines, I run straight past them. I get the energy - the strength - from somewhere, and I have no idea where - to increase my speed. I lunge over the ticket barriers like an Olympic hurdler.
I'm met by shouts of protest from the attendants, but I keep running, only faster. Looking over my shoulder, all I see is a flash of orange. An attendant chases after me with heavy steps and a jiggling midriff. Making progress down the steep stairs, pushing people out of the way, I expect somebody to act the hero - to grab me, to rugby tackle me - but they are too slow, too perplexed, to do anything.
I turn the corner at the bottom of the stairs. The train is waiting for me, like a getaway car. The doors are sliding closer together. I have been here before, on the first day of the month. Closing my eyes, I push with my back leg and then jump, like Lynn the Leap.
I am on the train. The doors meet in the middle just as my back foot touches down.
Turning to the window, I watch the attendant through the grubby glass, his eyes a watery blue, his face a swollen red. His clenched fist bangs against the window, just inches from my face. I wave to him as the train moves away. I spin on the spot and look around. Normally nobody ever dares to look at anybody on these damn germ buckets. Now everybody is looking up from their newspapers, from their phones, from the back of their hands. Looking at me.
"Just a slight misunderstanding with the ticket," I gasp.
They look back at their newspapers, at their phones, at the back of their hands, at anything and anybody else, except me.
I'm powerless to do anything about the speed of the train.
Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change...
Still, I urge the train to go faster. I count down the stops, one by one. I regain my breath, knowing that shortly I'll need it more than I ever have. I stare at my phone, willing the seconds to slow down, the minutes to stop completely. 11:50.
The doors of the train
